Tuesday, January 29, 2008

She was going to be an Oscar-winning actress and I was going to be famous the world over for writing that would make people laugh with joy and weep with empathy.

Instead I today mark the 13th anniversary of her death by trying, in this humble space, to use my words to pay some kind of tribute to her and to our friendship.

Julie and I met nearly 20 years ago in my first year of university. I was in full party mode, enjoying a concert by a band I can’t remember, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned and there stood a tiny, doll-like girl with a big, tipsy smile.

“I’m ever so short,” she said. (Really). “I can’t see the band. Help me out?”

She gestured to my shoulder and I burst out laughing at her audacity. When I regained my composure I stooped down and up she hopped. We were pretty much inseparable from that moment on.

I don’t know exactly how tall Julie was. Four feet, ten inches maybe? Four feet eleven? Surely not five feet. She never discussed it so I’m not sure how I came to understand that her growth had been stunted by treatments she endured to successfully fight leukemia as a toddler.

No matter. What Julie lacked in stature she made up for in attitude. She was startling beautiful and she knew it. She turned heads wherever she went. She would insult you in the most outrageous fashion and then charm you a second later with a conspiratorial wink and a flip of her hair.

We had a shtick, Julie and I. She was drool and I was goofy. I told corny jokes and she made cutting observations. We were partners in crime, kindred spirits, two peas in a pod. We got each other.

A few years after graduation Julie moved Los Angeles to pursue her acting career. I took a road trip to visit and fell in love with Arizona on my way through. I moved there not long after and we visited between Scottsdale and Los Angeles regularly.

What a heady time! She acted bit parts and I worked as a freelance writer. Drunk with youth and possibility, we attacked the world the only way we knew how – full tilt. We narrowly avoided a dust-up with a member of Faster Pussycat at Whiskey a Go-Go. We danced on the tables at a sushi restaurant in Venice. We traded jokes and insults behind the microphone at a house party we crashed in West Hollywood.

Superbowl weekend rolled around. Julie had vague plans to visit me in Arizona. I didn’t hear from her, but wasn’t overly concerned. Then her mother called in the early evening.

I have often tried, during the last 12 years, to recreate how I felt to hear those words. When the picture I carry of her in my head gets blurry or I can’t quite hear her voice, I force myself back into that dark moment, hoping, I guess, that fresh pain will somehow make her seem less distant.

And so I drove, tears streaming down my face, across the desert in the middle of the night. I remember the moonlight on the palm trees and the warm wind and the feeling that surely I must just be playing a part in some cheesy movie of the week – the kind Julie would eviscerate with one pithy blow.

But it wasn’t a movie of course. Julie had visited the doctor just a few weeks earlier about a nagging cough, which was, it turned out, symptomatic of imminent heart and lung failure. Her respiratory system had been compromised by the very treatments that had saved her life all those years ago.

I got to the hospital and went in to see her right away. I remember thinking how glamorous and beautiful she looked laying there, her hair artfully fanned out around her pillow: a tiny, perfect doll.

“Tell me a joke,” she said. And, because she asked me to, I blinked back my tears and did just that. Then I told her I loved her. She smiled like Cleopatra on the Nile. Of course I did.

One after another, the people who loved her filed in to say goodbye. Her parents went last and came out an hour or so later. She was gone, they said.

Julie was gone.

Afterwards I went to a Denny’s on Sunset Blvd and ate pancakes and drank Irish coffee and cried. It seemed fitting somehow and I lingered, knowing Julie would revel in the curious glances I drew with my smeared eyeliner, disheveled hair and tragic demeanor.

Some days I can’t believe that how much the world has changed since Julie was in it. How can it be that Pulp Fiction was the last movie that she saw? That she never got to make fun of Paris Hilton or weigh in on reality television. That September 11th was remarkable to her only because it’s my birthday?

I carried Julie’s lace handkerchief down the aisle with me on my wedding day. And on her birthday every year her parents treat me to dinner at her favorite restaurant. But I feel her loss most keenly at times when her memory sneaks up on me. Like on my 30th birthday when I couldn’t stop crying because it didn’t seem fair that I got to turn 30 and she didn’t.

There are so many, many things that Julie didn’t get to do and even as my life moves happily forward, I am haunted by each and every one of them.

Hi. Firstly, thanks for visiting my place. Secondly, I'm so glad you did, and that I came and saw your blog. That's a really lovely piece of writing. I'm sure Julie has read it from wherever she is, and approves wholeheartedly. It was nice to 'meet' you Julie!

That was a nice story about your friend. You never know where or when you'll meet one, and how they can touch your life.Thanks for stopping by my blog! Yours is very interesting! I can't wait to hear more about you. BTW, I love Toronto! My husband and I have been trying to find some time to go there for another weekend, without kids!

I’ve always wondered how we, humans, are able to cope with the 'deep losses' in our lives; what is it that makes us survive, and choose to live. The only answer I can imagine is: in a way, a part of us die each time, and, then, we continue to live.

Superb writing. Very moving tribute. I started crying half way through, and I had to stop reading for a moment because I have a very close college friend I can't imagine living without. I'm so sorry for your loss.

Incredible words for an incredible friend.I can tell you are grateful for the experience of this special friendship and memories.With all my heart I thank you for allowing us to share in Julie's memory.Alex

This is such an incredibly beautiful tribute to your friend. How sad that she had to die. I am so very sorry for your loss. She would have been very proud of what you have written about your friendship.

Wow. What an incredibly amazing connection to have with another human being. I'm positive that, if she could, she would tell you that your friendship--however brief--made all of those horrific treatments worth it. She simply had to stick around so she could have the chance to meet you. *hugs*

You have perfectly captured the essence of Julie's heart and joie de vivre. She was truly a remarkable person and left an indelible print on all the lives of those fortunate enough to have known her and her family. It is wonderful to know she had such a great friend.

My closest friend in Toronto died suddenly on January 3 of this year. We spent New Year's Day together at the lakeshore and talked about the future. She went to sleep the night of January 2 and never woke up. The autopsy and toxicology report showed nothing.

Today would've been her birthday. I got a bunch of her friends together to celebrate. Guinness, her favourite, will be the drink of choice.

i stumbled here from "unwellness"... this is so beautiful, and while i am so so sad for your loss, i am grateful you knew such a friendship as julie's and that you got to stand in her light... i am sure she watches over you every day.